Cheyenne splendor, p.24
Cheyenne Splendor, page 24
“I suppose we’ll never know until we experience it ourselves.” Summer was suddenly weary. She didn’t feel sadness or loss, only exhaustion and relief that it was finally over. She looked toward the suitcase and wondered why Priscilla had kept it packed? Where did the frail invalid think she might be going? Perhaps that was one mystery they would never solve, and maybe it didn’t matter.
She was too numb and too ill herself to feel much of anything. She was vaguely aware that Mrs. O’Malley crossed herself and sobbed as she moved to cover the mirrors in the room.
Dr. Morgan said, “My deepest sympathy; I’ll take care of things. Do you want to be the one to tell your father?”
Father. Oh, yes, there were others outside this room. For a few moments, everything else had ceased to exist.
Shawn straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Thank you for contacting me so I could get here in time.”
“Thank you for coming,” Summer whispered, “and giving her permission to go.”
His green eyes welled over again. “You might have been our daughter, if only . . . well, those are the two saddest words in any language, aren’t they?” He thought a moment. “And the four saddest are: ‘it might have been.’ ”
He had regrets, too, Summer thought. She reached to hand him the music box. “She would want you to have this. I’m so glad you got here in time.”
He clutched it to him like a drowning man. “I—I’ve made a mess of my life, always comparing every woman I met to Priscilla, putting her memory on a pedestal. In my mind, she became the most beautiful, most desirable prize to be won in this whole world.” He looked toward the bed and sighed. “Somehow, I expected her to look just as she had all those many years ago.”
“Perhaps she thought the same,” Summer said, “both of you trying to hang on to a moment frozen for eternity in your past.” She put her hand on his arm, felt him trembling.
“Such a damned shame,” he murmured again, and she was not sure if he spoke to her or himself, “married a girl just because she looked like Priscilla, then hated her because she wasn’t. No other woman could live up to that first love’s memory; that once in a lifetime love.”
Summer felt tears come to her eyes. A once in a lifetime love. Where was Iron Knife tonight? She felt ill and lonely and sad. If she let herself, she could dissolve into hysterics, and there were things to be done; there were always things to be done when someone died. “Do you need me to see you out?”
Shawn took a long look at her. She might have been his daughter if Priscilla had made a different decision. He shook his head. “No, I—I’ll be okay.”
A burden seemed to have been lifted off his shoulders. Still clutching the music box, he went down the stairs. Savannah. He hadn’t done right by his wife; he realized that now. He had not loved the spoiled blond beauty; he had married her because she looked like Priscilla. Maybe they could yet make a fresh start; give the marriage a second chance. Why, he’d even be polite to her brother, Beau, who was such a scheming ne’er-dowell. That rascal had had free rein with Shawn’s wealth and plantation these past four years; but he’d overlook that for Savannah’s sake. Yes, Shawn was willing to try again if Savannah was. He paused in the hallway and stared at the big grandfather clock. Strange, it had stopped; the pendulum was still.
A young girl who looked like Summer came out of the library carrying a black cat, paused, and stared at him. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Such strange eyes—blue and cold as a glacier—but such a beauty. He tried to think of a way to soften the blow; no words came. Shawn just nodded.
“I knew it”—the girl smiled ever so slightly—“I knew the moment it happened.”
“How—how did you know?”
She shrugged. “There was a rush of wind and the flames in the fire flickered. The clock stopped in mid-chime.” She glanced up at it. “It won’t ever run again.”
There was something eerie about this child who seemed to have her mother’s looks and her father’s hardness. Without thinking, Shawn crossed himself with his free hand. “Tell your father I’m sorry. We will never meet again.”
He turned and went to the big front door where the butler waited. Already servants were scurrying through the house covering mirrors, doing whatever needed to be done. Shawn went out the door into the cold. He stood there a long moment before he started down the drive. The wind bit into his face, and the frozen snow crunched beneath his boots. He at least had her music box, but Silas had her children. The man was lucky in more ways than one; Shawn had fully intended to kill Silas tonight as he left the mansion. Now he paused out on the vast lawns, took out his handgun and threw it as hard as he could with his crippled hand, watching with satisfaction as it disappeared into the shrubbery.
Another chance. Maybe, even though they had made such a mess of their lives, he and Savannah and their young son could start over, find a little happiness. Shawn vowed at that moment that he was going to return to Shannon Place and talk to his wife; really talk to her. Maybe they could make a fresh start. What a fool he had been to be in love with a dream all these empty years.
He crossed himself and felt at peace for the first time in a long, long time as he turned and walked away from the mansion, hailing a hansom cab to take him to the station.
Chapter Sixteen
They had buried Priscilla at Mount Auburn, the fashionable cemetery that was so innovative because of its ornate monuments and grounds. It was almost like a lovely park, sharp contrast to the former grim church graveyards. The family was in mourning, wearing black and seeing few visitors. However, within a couple of days, Silas had soon returned to his business duties.
Summer had planned to return west now that Priscilla was dead. However, she felt much too ill to travel, and she hadn’t heard anything from Iron Knife, despite her letters and wires. Evidently, that part of her life was over. She waited until a couple of days after the funeral while Father sat reading his newspaper after breakfast to decide to tell him about the coming baby.
“Ye Gods, it’s about time the war ended.” Silas smiled. “Lee has just surrendered! Custer was right in there for the kill! General Sheridan was so pleased, it says he gave Custer the table on which the surrender was written for his wife, Libby.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now David and Austin may be coming home. Elizabeth Shaw says Austin is still smitten with you, despite all the half-breed children.”
She decided to ignore that. Outside in the cool morning, the laughter of her children playing with Mrs. O’Malley in attendance drifted through the windows. “It is wonderful it’s over, isn’t it? No more killing.”
Father looked blank a moment, shrugged. “Oh, that, too, I suppose. I was thinking of the increased markets and all the money to be made selling supplies to rebuild the South.”
“Father.” She took a deep breath for courage, then plunged on, “You—you know I haven’t been feeling well lately.”
“I was afraid you might have caught something from your mother,” he muttered and went back to his newspaper.
“Father, we need to talk.”
“Hmm,” he grunted and hid himself behind his paper. Silas Van Schuyler never really communicated with his family, she thought, not in all these years. He talked about business; they listened. No conversation went any deeper than that unless he was chiding Priscilla about her drinking.
“Father, there’s something I need to tell you.” It took real courage to tackle the subject again. I must tell him I am expecting another child, but he will be furious. Everyone had always been afraid of Father’s wrath.
“Beau St. Claire has asked permission to call on you.”
“With Mother just dead, it isn’t appropriate.”
“Quite so,” Silas agreed, and appeared to be thinking aloud. “Austin’s almost as soft as David; neither one of them could run my empire. Now Beau might be able to until little Lance grew up and took over.”
“My son?” The idea surprised and horrified her.
“Why not?” Silas’ cold blue eyes gleamed. “He’s smart and he seems to like business. If you gave him the choice, do you think he’d rather be living in a tipi eating half-cooked meat and hunkering over a fire like a savage?”
“He belongs with his family; he’s only a little boy.”
He seemed to realize he had pushed her too far. “You’re right, my dear. I was only pointing out that should you decide to remain in Boston, I can offer your children every advantage.”
Hadn’t they had this conversation already? “Angela won’t like your idea; she hopes to run your empire herself someday.”
“She’s enough like me to do it, too, except she’s a girl and so she can never make her mark in business, no matter how ambitious she is.”
More and more, Summer was beginning to feel like her mother, trapped in this house by circumstances she couldn’t control. How long could she hide her pregnancy before it was noticed if she couldn’t get the courage to tell Father? Yet how could she return to Colorado if she wasn’t certain Iron Knife wanted her? She was no longer sure how she felt about him. On the other hand, as poorly as she felt, even if Iron Knife wanted her, she was too ill to make the long trip. What on earth was she to do?
“Father, we must talk,” she said again. Her heart began to hammer as it always did when she had to confront him.
“Damn it, you keep saying that, but you don’t say anything!” Father roared. “Now, if you’re upset because I promised Lance a new pony and fancy red-wheeled cart, I’ll have you know, it’s my money and I—”
“No, it’s not that; I didn’t even know about the pony.”
“Well, out with it then!” He glowered at her.
Summer took a deep breath for courage. All these years he had bullied Mother, and mostly, no one had stood up to him, demanded he stop. She felt deeply ashamed of that now; Mother was such a pathetic thing who had made such an easy target for his venom.
“Well?”
It was so quiet, she could hear birds chirping outside the window. There was no easy way to do this except blurt it out. “I—I’m expecting another baby.”
Silas looked at her a long moment as if he didn’t comprehend; then his face became mottled with anger as he stood up. “Ye Gods!” Silas put both hands to his head and paced the floor. “Who is this villain? Austin? Beau St. Claire? To think I trusted both of them—”
“Father, don’t be ridiculous; it’s Iron Knife.”
That put him into a fresh tirade of swearing as he paced. “Oh, isn’t this a pretty kettle of fish now? Three bastard children now and another—”
“They are not bastards!” Summer’s temper rose, and her voice did, too. Silas might bully her, but she would go toe-to-toe with him for her children. “We were married in a Cheyenne ceremony.”
“Wonderful!” He paused and glared at her, his words cold with sarcasm. “When is this blessed event due?”
“September.”
“Can’t you just see that in the Boston Sun? ‘Mister Silas Van Schuyler, the eminent financier and social leader, announces his daughter’s latest child by a savage who paid many ponies for her!’ ”
“I don’t have to stay and listen to this!” She was raging and brave now that he had dared to attack her man and her children. From outside, she heard the wail of a child and the noise of Lance and Storm arguing. It sounded as if they were fighting over a toy. Lance would try to negotiate and bargain; Storm Gathering would sock his brother in the eye and take it.
“Excuse me, Father, my children need me. We’ll talk later.” Summer stalked out and went outside to settle the dispute. At least now she no longer had to dread telling him. The next move was up to him.
Silas lit a cigar and poured himself a glass of brandy. Dr. Morgan had warned him that someday he might have a stroke if he didn’t do a better job of controlling his rage. He mulled over Summer’s unwelcome news. Ye Gods, now what was he to do? All those plans he’d had for marrying her off to either Austin or Beau were shot to hell. Then again, maybe not. Silas smiled and took a deep puff from the expensive cheroot and savored the taste of the brandy. Obviously, as badly as Summer felt, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while, which gave him an even longer time to plot. This new turn might even help his plans for his grandson.
Silas stared out the window at the bare dirt where the rose garden used to be. Immediately after the funeral, he had ordered it destroyed and had had the pleasure of being there to watch it happen. Cold, calculated action, that’s what always paid off. Tomorrow, he would force himself to apologize to Summer, be kind and sympathetic. Maybe this latest news wasn’t a problem, but an opportunity instead. This new child might be a handsome, white-skinned little grandson like Lance, and that would give Silas two heirs.
Time. Time was on Silas’ side. By next autumn, Summer could be interested enough in Beau or Austin to stay, and that savage might be dead or have another woman in his tipi. If Beau was loathe to take on a woman with four children, Silas would give him a partnership, or offer to raise the children—at least the white ones.
Yes, this might work out fine after all. Silas sipped his brandy and willed himself to cool his rage. A smart businessman always figured the angles and how to work them to his own advantage. Now maybe it was time to send that final telegram that would end this relationship between the daughter and that savage. Silas had lost Priscilla, but he damned well didn’t intend to lose Summer and her children!
Summer heard the doorbell ring and leaned over the upstairs bannister, listening to the butler answer it. Who could that be? In mourning as they were, she certainly wasn’t expecting any company. Father was at his office and had been very kind to her since that initial blow-up yesterday. In fact, he had even apologized to her this morning before he went to the office. Maybe her mother’s death was softening him a little. “Evans, who was that?”
He looked up at her. “A messenger boy, Miss Summer, a telegraph wire for you.”
Her heart leaped with hope as she hurried down the stairs. At last! It was bound to be a message from Iron Knife, or at least from Todd Shaw. She took the envelope, stared at it a long moment, then realized Evans was discreetly hovering in the background. “I’ll be in my room,” Summer said coolly and went up the stairs. She wasn’t about to share this with that snooty servant.
As she went down the hall, she could hear the children in the nursery with Mrs. O’Malley. Summer went into her room, sank down on the window seat and stared at the envelope for a long moment. It must be important or Todd would have just written a letter. The more she stared at it, the more unsure she was that she wanted to open it. Suppose Iron Knife had been killed? Suppose—?
Stop it, Summer, you’re imagining the worst, she scolded herself. It’s been difficult. for messages to get through because of the Indian war or maybe Todd has not been able to connect with Iron Knife and sent a wire because he knew you’d be in a hurry for news.
She found she was holding her breath, and her hands trembled as she opened it. She read it twice before the words sunk in:
Dear Summer: Stop. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Stop. You have been gone so long, Iron Knife has taken a Cheyenne girl as wife. Stop. Perhaps it was never meant to be. Stop. You were not cut out for this rough life. Stop. My best and warmest wishes. Stop. Todd.
She stared at the words for a long moment as if they were written in some foreign language. She felt empty inside, and then the grief came and the anger and the jealousy. With an oath, she tore the paper to bits and collapsed on the window seat in a torrent of sobs. If she had felt pain at the knowledge that he had made love to Gray Dove, this was sheer agony. Summer wept until she had no tears left and her eyes were swollen and red.
What should she do now? Contact Todd for more information? Why? Try to get tickets to return to Colorado Territory? What for? She wasn’t in any kind of physical condition to travel west, even if she had been certain of a warm welcome. How like a man! She had been gone about three months, and already her supposed once in a lifetime eternal love had found himself another woman. Summer was too ill to journey a long distance to fight for what was hers right now, or she would be on a train this afternoon. She wasn’t one to let another woman take her man without a fight. She found it almost impossible to believe Iron Knife would do this, but here was the evidence in her hands.
She finally forced herself to stop weeping because she began to fear her melancholia might be harming her baby. Late that afternoon, when she finally emerged from her room, she refused to discuss it with the sympathetic Mrs. O’Malley, and the other servants were looking at her swollen eyes with curiosity.
Father came home early and immediately sought her out in the music room, his voice warm with sympathy. “Summer, are you all right?”
“What are you doing home?” Father never let anything interfere with business.
“Evans sent for me; the whole house is abuzz that something terrible has happened!”
She tried to make an airy gesture, but her voice was ragged. “It—it’s nothing. I—I may not be returning to Colorado Territory after all.”
He didn’t say ‘I told you so,’ as she had dreaded. In fact, for a long moment, he didn’t say anything at all. “I know you won’t believe me, Summer, but I really am sorry.” He didn’t look her in the face; he studied the piano where Priscilla used to sit and play.
“Thank you, Father.” She was touched by his concern. Perhaps all these years, she had misjudged him. Perhaps he wasn’t as cold and calculating as she had always thought.
He cleared his throat. “Please don’t take it so hard, daughter; you know this was an improbable union to begin with—”
“Please, Father”—she held up her hand to shush him—“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“All right.” His voice was almost gentle. “You and your children have a home here as long as you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“I know this may seem like the end of the world to you, but you’ll get over it in time; they say time heals all wounds.”
